The Slytherin Blanket
by Crazy For Bakura
Summary: A single blanket, passed down through generations of pureblooded families. The last remaining heir, Draco Malfoy, must learn to harness the true underlying power of the blanket: Strength. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. If I could write as well as Jo Rowling, I wouldn't be on this site, struggling in vain to write something as good as her.**

**Warning: Contains HBP spoilers! If you haven't read the sixth book, I suggest you don't read this!**

**The Slytherin Blanket**

He wasn't quite sure _why_ he was holding it again. He hadn't done so since he was a little boy, but something about it just seemed to calm him down. Maybe because it reminded him of his mother, back when she had been kind, warm, and motherly. He had been innocent then, blissfully spending his days in any young boy's heaven. His father hadn't been around much then, so it was usually just him and his mother, sitting in the drawing room under this old blanket reading fairy tales.

Draco ran his fingers contemplatively over the green and silver fabric, reminiscing back to the day his grandmother had given him the blanket. She had cautioned him to take care of the blanket, but never explained why. And, like any naïve child would, he took her warning to heart and cared for the blanket as if it had been an extension of himself. For years it had been. Draco wouldn't have been seen without the blanket nearby. Then his tenth birthday came along…

Draco shook his head forcefully, shoving the memory to the back of his mind. He didn't want to think about that grievous day. He didn't want to think at all.

He pulled the blanket around his shoulders and leaned back, his shoulders hitting the wall behind him. He was wedged in a dark corner of Malfoy Manor, waiting for something—anything—to happen. He was sure there would be chaos in the wizarding world. After all, the death of the greatest wizard alive was no small matter. His eyes drifted shut and he saw, behind his lids, the look in the old man's eyes. That characteristic twinkle had been smothered, and his usual buoyant manner had dissipated into something much more animalistic in nature. Like an animal about to die. His dreams were so often filled with those lifeless eyes that he'd stopped sleeping to avoid them.

Draco shuddered and grasped the cool wood of his wand. It warmed to his touch and he was taken back to the top of the North Tower. At that moment, the _very_ moment Snape said those condemning words, his life had ended. Instead of being celebrated, he was in hiding. Instead of glory, he received doubt.

Footsteps sounded outside the room and Draco held his breath. The door squeaked open, hiding him in his corner. His grey eyes followed the intruder's path through the drawing room.

"Malfoy?"

Draco suppressed a sneer. Of course, _Potter_ would be the one looking for him.

"Malfoy, don't be a prat. Come out."

Draco held perfectly still, watching Harry scan the room carefully.

"Harry, if the others find out you're here—"

"Shh. I know. Help me find him."

"It's not worth it, Harry. You have to get back to the Dursley's."

Harry snorted bitterly.

"The Dursley's can—"

"Just leave him. V-Voldemort will kill him when he finds him anyway."

Draco cringed at the name and wrapped the blanket around himself tightly. And just as Harry was starting to listen to reason, Draco felt a tickle in his nose. It was inevitable. He was going to sneeze and give himself away. It simply never failed.

"Fine. Malfoy, if you can hear me, I just wanted to let you know that—"

"ACHOO!"

A groan followed the sneeze and Hermione pulled back the door to reveal the pale, thin boy. Draco mustered his best glare and loosened his grip on the blanket.

"How'd _you_ get in? Mudbloods aren't allowed in my manor," he spat viciously.

Hermione rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and a sigh escaped her lips. Ignoring him, she sent Harry a pointed look.

"Tell him. Now."

"All right…Malfoy, the Order's got your mum. She's been begging for them to find you, Merlin only knows _why_, and she won't shut up about it. We keep telling her that you'd never fit in at the Burrow, but she won't listen."

Draco picked at a piece of fuzz on the blanket subconsciously. He didn't know whether to believe him or hex him into oblivion. If the Order _did_ have his mother, Merlin knew what they would do to her. He'd be obligated to go with Potter and the Mudblood in order to save his mother. But if he was lying…well, there's no better Potter than a dead one.

He lifted his gaze to Harry's and snarled, "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"I would snap my wand before lying to you about this. Honestly, your mum's quite annoying. I knew she was protective of you, but Merlin—!"

"Shut your face, Potter. At least my mother's _alive_."

Draco grinned with fiendish glee as Harry glowered at him. He'd be quite upset when Voldemort killed Potter. He wouldn't have anyone to tear down anymore, as was his favorite pastime.

"At least I'm not sitting in a corner waiting to be killed. You're pathetic, Malfoy. Look at you, wrapped up in some stupid blanket—you probably haven't even slept in days! You can't, can you? You're too scared to sleep!"

Draco clenched his jaw and stood up, bringing the blanket with him. He didn't care that Potter had called him pathetic—who was _he_ to talk? But _no one_ insulted the Slytherin blanket. The blanket may have looked childish, but it meant much more than idiot Potter knew. The blanket represented all the good left in his soul. It held so many precious memories—Potter didn't have anything like that.

"Get out of my house, Potter. And tell my mother I'm safe," Draco murmured softly, making the other two lean closer to hear him. "I'm not going to hide forever."

Hermione and Harry exchanged an incredulous look. Had Malfoy spoken without insulting them?

"Especially not in the _Weasel's_ house," he added as an afterthought.

Hermione rolled her eyes exasperatedly and grabbed Harry's shirt sleeve.

"C'mon, Harry. Just leave him. Since he _obviously_ knows what he's doing."

Draco promptly ignored her scathing comment and started folding the blanket carefully. Harry studied him distastefully, his lips pulled into a frown.

"Does Voldemort know you carry a blanket with you everywhere?"

The tip of Draco's wand was instantly jabbing Harry's neck. Harry's emerald eyes flashed with amusement and Draco growled.

"Isn't this your master's job?"

Draco was so taken aback by the question that he dropped his wand arm. Potter hadn't even flinched; he hadn't been scared in the least bit. Maybe he, Draco, _was_ pathetic…?

"Get out. Just get out."

Harry snorted and turned away towards the door. He cast back one last, disdainful look at his silver-eyed rival. Something in that look made Draco want to cower under his blanket again and just stay there until the entire war was over. The safety of the knitted blanket would shelter him from the impending doom written in Harry's eyes.

"Next time we meet, Malfoy, you'd better not have that damn blanket. I'd feel guilty if I accidentally set it on fire."

Trying to rid his mind of the horrid images Harry had inspired, Draco shook his head. Harry took the action as affirmation that Draco would certainly not have the blanket in their next meeting, and pulled Hermione from the room. The door slammed behind them and Draco was left in utter darkness again, the blanket warm in his hands. He gazed blindly around him and lifted his wand.

"_Lumos_," he whispered. Light erupted from the tip of his wand, casting eerie shadows upon the old, gloomy walls. His gaze fell to the blanket in his hand and a fire of grim determination set itself alight in his eyes. He stuffed the blanket inside a dragon hide bag and set out from the dismal room. On his way to the front entrance, he picked up his broom and held it purposefully at his side.

He wasn't sure where he was going, and he didn't particularly care where he went…he just wanted out of that house. He had to do something. He couldn't be pathetic anymore, not with Potter out there fighting for the good of all humanity. He wouldn't just lie down and wait for redemption.

He thought of returning to the Death Eaters and Snape. Then he thought of the Burrow. But since he didn't exactly know what it looked like, he pictured a little shack filled with millions of red-haired, inept wizards. Shuddering, he returned to the earlier idea of returning to the Dark Lord. He would be treated with contempt and supercilious manners, but, he thought, since when was there glory among thieves and murderers?

With that, he kicked off from the lawn outside Malfoy Manor, hoping to never see its miserable corridors again.

**Fin.**

**Yay! There it is, folks, my first attempt at HP fiction! This fic was inspired by Wicked Little Town, who is, allegedly, knitting me the Slytherin Blanket. Therefore, this is also dedicated to her!**

**Please review!**

**CFB**


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